


Error Of Thy Ways

by CedanyTheBold



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale has kids and they are little shits, Gen, Good? Crowley, Human Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 08:54:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7633903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CedanyTheBold/pseuds/CedanyTheBold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale is called up to Heaven to stand trial for his involvement in the Almost-Apocalypse. Rather than Fall, he pleads to be made mortal and goes on to live a normal human life. But all human lives inevitably end, and then it's up to Crowley to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Error Of Thy Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FF.net. Recently started working on it again.

 

He knew it had to happen. He had been called back. It had taken long enough, but he wished it could have been longer. Just one more lunch with Crowley, one more evening in the shop…

But Aziraphale found himself called back Above unexpectedly, and somehow he knew he was never going back. His fate would be decided at his trial.

The heavenly host was gathered, though not how one might expect the heavenly host to assemble. It was not an orderly courtroom scene. The space Aziraphale was led into was packed full like an overcrowded lecture hall. Several lesser angels, Virtues, and even a few seraphim spilled out from the seating area like disorderly teenagers. Every last one of them was peering down their nose at him.

And angels weren’t supposed to judge.

In a lofty position sat the archangel Raguel. He was to act as judge and jury, but God himself was to play the role of executioner. Aziraphale swallowed hard. If he was lucky, he’d be demoted. If not…

Well, at least he’d get to see Crowley again. He had to admit, he missed the old devil.

A booming voice interrupted his thoughts—thoughts he shouldn’t even be harboring, he noted dryly.

“Here is called the Principality Aziraphale, to face judgment for his misdeeds on Earth,” Raguel thundered. “You have been called back having been accused of conspiring with a demon in order to avert the End of Days. What have you to say in your defense?”

Aziraphale fought back the urge to wipe his sweating palms on his trousers. He thought for a moment, but could not think of anything to say. The accusations were entirely true. He wished he had a lawyer, but lawyers did not enter the kingdom of Heaven. (1)

He cleared his throat and spoke at last. “It’s true, Crowley and I worked together. But br—er—sir, it was not what it seemed. There is much good in humanity, and I wished to see it spared. I cannot speak on behalf of Crowley, as I don’t know what his motives may have been. Pray hear me when I say there is still good left in him. He may have Fallen, but he is not truly evil.”

“How dare you speak the demon’s name!” bellowed Raguel, pointing an accusatory finger. “Do not think Heaven has turned a blind eye on you all this time, Aziraphale. We have been watching you. For centuries of humans’ time you collaborated with and agent of Hell. We were not unaware of the understanding you called the Arrangement—did you honestly believe your time spent on earth was a game to be played?”

The kindly book dealer quailed under this direct attack. “Raguel, please…I do not see the harm in it. He was merely doing his job, as was I. But when you have spent six millennia in a place where the people don’t even live a century, you’re bound to seek out the only other person who’s been there as long as you have!”

“Time is irrelevant! You have grown too accustomed to playing human, learning their ways. You were supposed to be a guide to them, not lose yourself in their meaningless customs!”

It was true; he had gone native. They both had. His face was growing hot. Human customs were not meaningless. Some were quite beautiful. How could all these celestial beings not see that? _Because they’ve never been there,_ he reminded himself. He was becoming increasingly aware of the hateful stares of the assembled crowd. Heaven wasn’t supposed to be like this. When had it changed?

It never had. _He_ changed. 

With a dry throat, he spoke again. “Please,” he tried. “I beg for mercy. If it pleases Him, I will gladly become mortal and live out my days on Earth, with no promise of salvation.”

A Presence filled the space.

“Let it be so,” said the voice of God.

                                                                ********************************

Aziraphale woke up on the floor of his shop feeling terrible. Was this what _tired_ felt like? Every movement was a chore. He dragged himself to the sofa and sprawled, staring up at the ceiling. It took a few moments for the full weight of his decision to hit, but once it did, he could feel his heart racing. His heart had never raced, he had never needed to breathe, but now he found himself hyperventilating until he grew dizzy.

He sat up and let his head drop into his hands. After a moment the dizziness subsided, but a strange tightness remained in his chest. Was he having a heart attack? He knew it sometimes happened to humans under a lot of stress. And now he was human. His wings were gone, and their absence was uncomfortable.

For whatever reason, the loss of his wings hit him like a ton of bricks. Funny, how the most insignificant thing could affect you. What bothered him wasn’t the fact that he would age, get sick, and die. It was the loss of his wings.

At long last, he stood up and went to the kitchen to make himself some cocoa. Perhaps that would settle his nerves. He got everything ready, and as the kettle was boiling, a thought struck him. He was going to die someday.

_I will gladly become mortal and live out my days on Earth, with no hope of salvation._

What had he done? What would happen to him? Would he go to Hell? Or would he just cease to exist? The thought of this was too much to bear and he sank down into the lone chair at the table as tears streamed down his face.

He didn’t notice that the water had finished boiling. It had boiled nearly to nothing before he got up, turned the kettle off, and wandered to the back room, picking up the telephone receiver and absentmindedly dialing a number.

“Crowley,” he said shakily. “You’d better get over here.”

                                                                *******************************

Not ten minutes later, the screech of tires outside the shop woke Aziraphale from his stupor. Crowley was here. The bell over the door jingled as the demon strode in, looking around wildly.

“Jes—jeez, angel. What is it? You sounded like…” he said, seeing Aziraphale hunched over on the couch.

“I…got called back…” the angel spoke in a trembling tone. “Got tried for ‘conspiring’ with you or some such nonsense…asked them to make me mortal as punishment…didn’t think they’d actually…”

“You’re _mortal_?” questioned Crowley, coming to sit beside his shivering friend.

“Yeah…no hope of salvation either.” The angel’s lower lip trembled and his next question made him sound much younger than his six thousand years. “Crowley…what d’you think happens to you when you die?”

“I don’t know,” the demon mused. As far as he knew, you only went one way…or the other. With no hope of salvation, Aziraphale’s fate would probably be the latter. “Seems like something we should discuss over a drink or two.”

“Can’t,” Aziraphale shivered. “Can’t just sober up anymore.”

“Humans drink too, you know. Alcohol was _their_ invention. You’ll just have to watch it.” He thought for a moment, and then scoffed. “Look at me, telling you to be responsible.”

The angel gave him a watery smile. “Always knew there was some good in you. Tried to tell them.”

Crowley took off his sunglasses, unblinking yellow eyes staring. “You…told the entire heavenly host…that a _demon_ had some good in him?” he cackled.

“Fallen angel,” corrected Aziraphale. “Compared to the rest, you’re no demon.”

“Gee, thanks.” he retorted. His demonic pride had been slighted. “Well, how about that drink then, eh?”

                                                                                ****************

“S’like I was sayin’,” slurred Aziraphale. “I _asked_ them t’do it. It’s _my_ fault.”

“What’re you gonna do?” questioned the serpent. “Sss _done_ , angel. Nothin’ you can do now. So, just _live._ ”

Aziraphale looked down sadly as he ran a finger along the rim of his glass. “How?”

“I dunno…be human. Write a book. Fall in love.” Crowley snickered. “Have _kids_.”

“I never!” cried the former angel, appalled at the mere suggestion.

                                                                                *********************

After a while, he began to see the sense in Crowley’s words…how _easy_ it was for humans to be taken in by evil, he realized. But with no hope of salvation, he had nothing to worry about anyway.

He began work on a book, and saw it published. In fact, he became a rather successful author, one of the best speculative fiction writers of his day. His became a household name. No one ever knew where his seemingly limitless inspiration came from. Except for himself. And Crowley.

It came as a shock to the demon when Aziraphale asked if he would be his best man. He hadn’t known Aziraphale to have harbored romantic tendencies. He’d always figured that the former angel, like himself, had remained sexless.

“Angel, you know I can’t set one foot inside a church.” argued the demon defensively. In truth, he was jealous. He’d never been attracted to Aziraphale in that way, but he still considered him to be his best friend and his brother, of sorts.(2) And now the person he had spent six thousand years roaming the earth with was being taken away from him. Oh, well. It was only natural, he supposed, Aziraphale being mortal and all.

“That won’t be a problem, dear boy.” his old friend assured him. “It’s a courthouse affair. Strictly legal. I’ve been cut off from Upstairs, so I don’t see why I should have any further association with them.”

Crowley’s mind reeled as he tried to process what Aziraphale had just said. It was so unlike him. He had expected him to be the type to fall on his knees and beg forgiveness and wallow in misery for the rest of his days. But he had just moved on. All business, no nonsense.

“Glad to see you’re coming around,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Of course I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it.”

Aziraphale pulled him into an awkward embrace—something he had never done before. “Thanks, Crowley.”

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley muttered, wrangling himself out of his grip and turning to leave. “Oh, and Angel?”

“Yes?”

“I’m not wearing tartan.”

                                                                *********************

Aziraphale’s small family grew to include two children, Ezekiel and Martha. They had no clue that they were of angelic stock, and he meant never to tell them. However, he did have to keep a very close eye on dear old Uncle Anthony (3) whenever he came to visit.

Crowley turned up on Christmas day with a suspiciously large and moving package. Aziraphale was busy making cocoa, so it was his wife who answered the door.

“Happy Christmas, Maeve.” grinned Crowley. “I hope we’re all well?”

“O…of course, Anthony. Never better.” she stammered. After all these years, she couldn’t believe this man was her husband’s best friend. She could never put her finger on it, but something about him just didn’t seem right.

“Oh, we should get these under the tree,” he said, gesturing to the packages, the large moving one and two smaller.

Aziraphale emerged from the kitchen with a tray full of mugs. “Crowley!” he cried, putting the tray down on an end table. “Happy Christmas, old boy! Wasn’t expecting you this early.”

Crowley squirmed uncomfortably as he was wrapped into a hug. Aziraphale was becoming more and more human as time wore on. He was looking older these days, too.

“Erm…Ezra?” muttered Maeve, tweaking his sleeve.

“Yes?” asked the angel, who had since adopted the name of Ezra Fell again.

Maeve nodded to the side, and Aziraphale followed her out of the room. “That box is moving.”

“What?”

“That box. Anthony brought it. It’s _moving_.”

Delighted squeals from both children interrupted their aside as Ezekiel and Martha uncovered the box and lifted out what looked like two black bear cubs. 

“Thank you, Uncle Anthony!” they squealed.

Aziraphale pulled Crowley aside as Maeve disappeared into the kitchen muttering about the turkey.

“Do _not_ tell me you’ve gone and gotten them hellhounds,” he hissed.

Crowley snorted. “Go—gosh, Az, do you think there’s some pet shop Downstairs where you can just _buy_ those things? Dog was a special case. These are just newfoundlands.”

Aziraphale sighed. Two newfoundlands. They’d outgrow the house.

“Crowley, you _bastard_.” he said, swatting him on the arm.

The demon said nothing, merely giving a snaky smirk in reply.

                                                                ******************************

The earthly remains of Ezra Fell were committed to the ground beside his wife Maeve on a cold and rainy day in March. He had lived rather longer than most humans in his mortal form, and he had decided at his last that his age at time of death would be one hundred and seven. Unusual, but still plausible. Crowley took care of the affairs.

 The demon stood beside Aziraphale’s children as they tossed the customary handfuls of earth atop their father’s casket. Martha was trying her best to keep quiet, muffling her sobs in a handkerchief.  Ezekiel stood beside her, one arm wrapped around her shoulders. They were the spitting image of their father, glossy blond curls and all.(4)

When the service was over, he turned to face the pair.

“I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly, clearing his throat and rubbing the hair at the nape of his neck. “Azira… _Ezra_ was a good man...more than you know. He didn’t deserve what he got.”

They stared at him.

“Look, there’s something you should know. Why don’t you both come back to my flat for the night?”

Ezekiel stepped forward and fixed Crowley with a stare. There was something he already knew, and that was that there was something strange about his uncle. As he had grown older, he couldn’t help but notice there was something off about him.

“All right,” he said.

They followed Crowley to his ancient, yet somehow pristine, Bentley. For the first time since he’d owned it, the car didn’t want to start. He floored the pedal until he thought he’d flooded the engine. He got out and looked under the hood. Nothing was wrong.

“You’re out of petrol,” noted Martha from inside the car.

Upon further inspection, he found that that was indeed the problem. His car had _never_ needed petrol. Apparently it did now.

Several hours later they arrived at his flat(5) and Crowley ushered them into the lounge while he made coffee.

“Now,” he said, sitting down at the table and placing steaming mugs before them. “I’m sure you’ve noticed some things about me over the years…namely that I’ve never aged.”

“And you never take off your sunglasses,” said Martha.

“Right. And that.” Crowley sipped his coffee. “Well, I think the time has come to set everything straight.” He took off his shades and gave them an unblinking stare. “First of which isss,” he hissed, extending a forked tongue of impressive length. “I’m a demon.”

The siblings turned a bit pale, but otherwise made no reaction, no question. It was clear as day he wasn’t human. He’d show them his true form, but he was afraid if he did they’d never come near him again. And he kind of liked having them around.

Ezekiel recovered first. “What the hell does that have to do with Dad?” he asked.

“I’m getting there!” said Crowley. “Your father’s real name was Aziraphale,” he continued tersely, unprepared for the sudden wave of emotions saying that name would bring. “He was an angel. A Principality, if you know what that is.” He cleared his throat and took a gulp of coffee to bolster his courage. “Anyway, he was the Guardian of the East gate. Of Eden. Here from the very start.”

“Dad was an atheist,” said Martha. “Hated religion. Said God was a…”

“Oh, really?” Crowley cut her off. Aziraphale, an atheist? Hell must be doubly frozen. “How do you explain your names, then? Old habits die hard, eh?”

“You’re not really our uncle, then.” said Ezekiel.

“Not by blood, no.” Crowley affirmed. “But he and I may as well have been brothers. We’ve been through he…some shit together.”

“You’re a snake,” Martha stated. “You’re _the_ snake. From Eden.”

“How _clever_ of you to have guessed,” Crowley hissed, his voice growing ever more snakelike and raspy. “Though I mussst say I prefer ‘ssserpent,’ if it’s all the sssame to you.” Then, just as quickly, he reverted back to his human voice. “Your father got in trouble with the man Upstairs, after a few millennia of us knocking about together.” The Arrangement between himself and Aziraphale would take longer to explain than he wanted, so he cut to the chase. “We were enemies once, and then we got tired of having to chase each other around and stop whatever the other was doing. So we called it a draw. Settled on an Arrangement, and worked together while canceling out each other’s deeds at the same time. Nice and civil.”

“Friendly rivals?” asked Ezekiel.

“Exactly.” said Crowley. “We both went native, you might say. Didn’t want to give up life on Earth. There were never any serious repercussions from my side, but your dad…well, he got called up and had to stand trial for conspiring with a demon. Instead of Falling, he asked them to make him mortal so that he could live out the rest of his days doing what he loved. I guess there was some agreement that he wouldn’t be granted any sort of salvation, so now he’s…”

“In hell?”

“No…I think he’s just gone. Ceased to exist.”

Martha sniffled and her brother pulled her into a hug. Crowley laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “Probably not what you wanted to hear right now.”

“No.”

“Listen, we’d…probably better be going,” said Ezekiel, hauling Martha up from the chair and handing her her coat. “And it’s nothing personal, but I think it’s best that we…keep our distance for a while, if it’s all right with you.”

Crowley nodded, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut. Of course the children of an angel would want nothing to do with him. Then he remembered something.

“Wait!” he called after them. “There’s something else. Something your father probably never showed you.” Slowly, he peeled off his suit jacket and folded it over the back of a chair. Standing before them, arms at his sides, he unfurled his wings. Glossy cream feathers spanned the width of the room as his niece and nephew just stared.

“He had them too. The last time they were put to use, we saved the world.(6) Together. No sides. No good, no evil. Just two old friends who didn’t want to see it all end.” he said slowly, suddenly very fascinated with the plush white carpet. Then he looked up. “I’m afraid the world will go to shit without him.”

                                                                                *******************

Crowley sat staring at the blank television screen that evening, alone in his flat with only his plants and a glass of wine for company. An estranged niece and nephew (7), a car that suddenly needed petrol, and the unshakable feeling that something was very wrong, and would never be made right. He sipped his wine. Was the world coming to an end all over again?

No. It wasn’t.

Just _his_ world.

                                                                *********************************

(1) Save for one fellow by the name of Lincoln.

(2) Not that he would ever tell him.

(3) Who was not, in fact, old, and whose encounters with the children included teaching them crude rhymes and devious practical jokes. They loved him.

(4) Crowley had recently learned that Ezekiel was engaged to an artist. She was quite taken by his classical beauty, and not much else. Crowley henceforth decided that his         nephew must either be desperate or an idiot. Quite possibly both.

(5) After calling several service stations and finally finding one who was willing to bring a can of petrol to a rural cemetery, strange questions notwithstanding.

(6) With the help of a certain young antichrist.

(7) Granted, that was mostly his fault.


End file.
